The image and the message come through while I’m sitting cross-legged on my assigned bed (number twenty-four, middle row, third bed from the right) and scrolling rather mindlessly through my phone. The device buzzes abruptly in my hand. A holiday pic from my cousin? The number is unknown. Maybe Lisa got herself a new SIM card? She’s spending seven whole weeks in Chile, so that would make sense.

Downloading the photo takes a couple of seconds – our lodge is basically in the middle of the woods, after all, so the connection is slow – in which I am left to squint at the blurry thumbnail. It seems very dark, with a brighter shape in the middle of blackness.

The picture snaps into crisp eight-megapixel clarity the very second the text comes through.

[Unknown: You looked beautiful tonight, Missy.]

My breath catches.

It’s me.

That’s my body in that picture, half of my skin exposed, photographed from the foot end of the very same bed I’m currently sitting on.

The photo shows me supine on my back, on top of the duvet. My naked legs are bent at the knees and parted wide, putting my (thinly, transparently) panty-clad, spread pussy into the dead center of the picture. The fingers of my right hand, outline clearly visible through the flimsy cotton of my panties, are buried knuckle-deep in my naughty hole. My left hand is up my nightshirt, groping my left tit roughly.

“Oh, my God,” I hush out and almost lose hold of my phone. My hands are suddenly shaking too badly, my stomach is pulling taut, and I feel like I’m about to throw up.

I should probably look up and look around. Whoever took and sent me that picture and the message must be right here with me, in this very room, just like they were last night. He (or she? No, probably ‘he’) is probably watching my reaction right now, and I should catch them in the act. But I can’t bring myself to do so. Shock and embarrassment keep my head down low, and my instinct is to not let anything show.

Morbid curiosity makes me tap the picture and zoom in, to see just how many details it captured and whether I’d be as easily identifiable to other people as I was to myself.

My sleep mask is hiding the top part of my face, but my distinctive cheeks, tinted with a fevered blush, are exposed enough. My mouth is set in a grimace of lust. The mole on the side of my jaw is on display. The ring I wear on my pinky finger is glinting in the flash of the photograph.  And my carrot-colored pubic hair is unmistakable, peeking past the crotch of my pastel-green underwear.

I keep staring and staring at myself. At my body. At me. At the photo that some stranger took of me.

If…

If the circumstances were different, I…I think I might like this picture.

It’s ungainly, sure. It’s not a professional porn shot by any stretch. My various bumps, pores, wrinkles, rolls, and hairs are not photoshopped to nonexistence. My boobs, even though they are on the small side, are flat on my chest due to gravity, my nipples pointing wide. I can see uncomfortably far up my nostrils.

But still.

I note how my naked feet are pointed, the toes all curled, speaking of the pleasure I was feeling at that moment. I note how the nipple of my left breast forms a bump underneath my sleep shirt that is positively magnetic to the gaze. I note the darker spot on the cotton between my thighs – how it traces along my slit… evidence of what a good and patient girl I had been before I started touching myself.

I swipe my thumb across the screen to inspect the top half of the picture more.

The fan of hair across my pillow and the whiteness of my skin form a spectacular contrast with the fuzzier darkness outside of the cone of the camera flash, and the entire composition reminds me of one of Fiona Apple’s music videos.

I’ve been a bad, bad girl…

Someone coughs.

I flinch and tap the screen to zoom out again, belatedly checking whether anyone is close enough to have seen the full super-magnified six-point-one-inch display of my moist crotch. There’s nobody close, though.

The devastating verdict is: Anyone would only need one look at it to identify me among the twenty-six women on this company retreat. None of the handful of female employees of the lodge come into question, either.

While my heart is seemingly squeezing through my ribs with every thud, I hastily delete the photo from my chat feed. I know it’s pointless, that this will not delete it on his device. Still, it feels necessary.  

I’m left with a gray [picture deleted]-note and his written message.

[Unknown: You looked beautiful tonight, Missy.]

He knows my name, too. My trembling fingers mash onto the text field, and then onto the keyboard that pops up.

[Missy: U had NO right 2 take that photo!!!]
[Missy: Delete it NOW or I will take this 2 the authorities!!!!]

As I hit ‘send’, I regret having deleted the picture myself. Did I just destroy evidence? I panic for a stupid second, then remember that nothing is ever truly deleted from the internet. I’m sure this app allows at least three methods of recovering data. Should I ever actually go to the police with this, I can surely somehow-

[Unknown: Nonsense, Missy.]

That’s all he – I assume it’s a man, just on principle – sends me for a whole minute. I stare at the two words for so long, that their afterimage starts swimming before my eyes. Nonsense, Missy. Asshole.

Eventually, I do pop my head up and look around me more thoroughly, just to see if anyone is typing on their phones, or maybe acting… I don’t know… suspicious? Or looking like an asshole?

Like they have seen and photographed me naked and without my consent and are now watching my reaction to receiving a nude pic of myself and cryptic messages from unknown numbers?

But there’s no one there to catch my eye. The long, gently billowing curtains that divide the massive sleeping hall into ‘aisles’ are all pulled open and up, more or less allowing us to see each other sitting on or near our assigned beds.

There’s only a handful of people inside right now: Marcus from accounting, clearly asleep sitting up with his mouth wide open, Brad B. and Brad W. from HR, discussing something (probably fantasy football) on Brad B.’s iPad, Ashlee from recruiting, talking quietly on the phone while pacing next to her bed. Outside on the porch steps, I can see Jada and Tamara from senior management enjoying tea together. Everyone else is on the camping grounds outside somewhere, or in the entrance hall, as close as they can get to the one source of WiFi.

Nobody is looking at me.

Still, I feel watched and paranoid, and I really need a quiet place to think, so I grab my purse and hurry over to the bathroom, lock myself into the very last stall and sit down on the closed toilet lid. I have received two messages in the meantime.

[Unknown: Don’t worry. I will probably keep this picture to myself.]
[Unknown: I will cherish it.]

“Ugh,” I snarl, just knowing in my gut that this is code for ‘I’m going to masturbate over it for the next decade’. The thought makes me warm and queasy.

[Missy: Pervert]
[Missy: Delete it!]
[Missy: This is sexual assault!!!]

He starts typing immediately and quickly, and a whole barrage of messages fires back at me.

[Unknown: You spread your legs and diddled yourself to an orgasm, Missy.]
[Unknown: In a room full of innocent, sleeping people.]
[Unknown: You didn’t care if any one of them was watching.]
[Unknown: You didn’t care if your moaning and gasping would wake anyone up]
[Unknown: or if the sound and smell of your sopping wet pussy would bother anybody.]
[Unknown: Under those circumstances, calling others “perverted”]
[Unknown: is rather like the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?]

I grind my teeth, then lift my right thumb to chew on it. Normally, it helps me think. Right now, it just serves to remind me how I used that very same thumb last night, sliding the pad of it-

The sound and smell of your-

I quickly pull my hand away from my mouth again and feel myself blush fiercely. Sound, smell. I remember those from last night.

I also remember hazy notions of the people around me opening their eyes, straining their ears to catch my little whimpers. Enjoying the idea of it, the suspicion that one of their co-workers was…

I remember gently suckling the tip of my moist finger, enjoying the earthy, sultry taste.

I put my palm over my eyes for a moment and let the shame wash over me, and the shame over the fact that my shame is so small and shallow, and that I don’t feel like a pervert – or if I do, I don’t know that I hate it.

I’ve been a bad, bad girl.

When I dare to face the world again, two new messages are waiting.

[Unknown: I am fond of perverts like you.]
[Unknown: And perverts like you are fond of me.]

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I hiss at my screen. Apprehension is unfurling queasily in my stomach. He’s typing some more, and I’m afraid he’ll answer my question.

[Unknown: You’ll like everything I have planned for you.]
[Unknown: I promise.]

Everything he has planned for me. The cold dread hardens like cement. My thumbs tremble as I type, then delete it, berating myself – Focus, Missy! Focus on the most important thing! – then type again.

[Missy: Delete my pic u creep!!!]

I stare at my screen, willing him to reply, dreading it, and already knowing what his answer will be again.

When the silence has stretched into three minutes, I type a ‘please,’ but then delete it again without sending it, angry at myself for even considering it. Then, I type a ‘NOW’ in all-caps, but delete that as well, and get angry at myself again for being so chicken.

A couple more minutes pass. Someone comes into the restroom and uses the toilet, then leaves. I stare and stare and stare at my screen, tapping it with my thumb to keep it from fading into standby-black. Eventually, I am too antsy to wait any longer.

[Missy: What do u mean “everything u have planned for me”?]
[Missy: And FYI Im not found of u at all rn]
[Missy: fond]

My damn phone doesn’t speak Posh.

[Missy: I want u 2 delete my picture!!!]
[Missy: And stop taking pics of strangers you fckn perv!!!]
[Missy: Im gonna report you 2 the police]
[Missy: Ur a criminal]

And he is, I’m 100% sure of it.

I give in to the urge and finally do chew on my thumbnail.

The question is just… am I a criminal as well?

Exhibitionism is a crime, isn’t it? What’s the term? ‘Indecent exposure’ or something? And, I mean, considering that I may or may not have, uh, gotten off on, well, diddling myself basically in front of fifty other people, technically…

[Unknown: You’ll get my instructions later today.]
[Unknown: Be patient, Missy.]

I re-read the two messages twice. My anger makes me grip my phone so hard, that the plastic case creaks a little.

Just as I send my thumbs to hammering out a response, he types again and his next message pops up.

[Unknown: Don’t stay in the restroom for too much longer.]
[Unknown: People might think you’re up to something naughty in there.]

I shoot up from my seat – and sway, because tensely sitting on this toilet has caused my legs to go numb – and fling myself out of the stall, then out into the sleeping hall.

But nobody is there. Just like before, nobody is paying any particular attention to me. Nobody looks suspicious.

I wipe my forehead. I feel dizzy and tingly, and I may go insane.

What can I do?

I look down at my phone as though for answers. At the top of the column, his third-to-last message stares back at me.

Be patient, Missy.

***

The second day - the first full day - of this company retreat passes by at a crawl even though there are so many activities that my schedule is practically bursting from 10 a.m. to 8.30 in the evening. The Meadow Breeze Lodge specializes in company retreats and offers everything from pottery courses to climbing forests to experimental choir singing, scavenger hunts to Kundalini yoga to meditative finger-painting. It would be fun, if it didn’t come with unacknowledged peer pressure, and wasn’t interspersed with (usually mandatory) motivational speeches, workshops on inner-corporate growth, dispute resolution, and trust-building exercises.

They know how to keep grown-ups maximally busy.

Our current sleeping arrangement is also part of the “trust-building experience”: all forty-nine participants from the company I work for (LX&G Inc.) are sleeping in a stadium-sized dormitory that simultaneously reminds me of that one time the entirety of the Hogwarts student body had to sleep in the Great Hall in book three, and one of those guest houses in Africa that are built to allow herds of elephants to pass through the building.

The hexagonal hall is entirely open on two sides. Long curtains hang from the wooden rafters, waving in the breeze. They separate the rows of beds and give us a modicum of privacy. Between each bed-and-nightstand set, there’s a little latticework folding screen – elegant, good for hanging your lighter clothes over, but rather ineffective with regards to visual cover from your bed neighbors.

“It’s intentional and purposeful,” one of the lodge employees assured us during the Welcome-briefing. "You will get to know each other and yourselves. It’s a splendid experience!”

So far, I have gotten to know Rich’s sleep attire (concerningly little) and body hair (concerningly lots), David’s nocturia (twice an hour between 10 p.m. and 1 a.m., poor guy), and a rough outline of the contents of Melissa’s dreams (coleslaw, IKEA, Denzel Washington...?). None of it was particularly splendid.

The moment I heard that this retreat was planned, I knew it would be something like this, but LX&G just hired me five weeks ago, so I didn’t feel like I could say No. Plus, with the exception of the meals, it was completely paid for, and Meadow Breeze is positively idyllic. It has rave reviews on Yelp, too.

'Somehow get through the week' was the one, simple goal. And to reach that goal, I use ear plugs, my sleep mask, and… well.

My nighttime ritual.

I really, really tried to go without, but the hours passed by like molasses last night, and sleep just wouldn’t come. I was almost certain that everyone else (even David with his bladder problem) was deeply asleep – which heightens the misery of insomnia, especially when some of them snore like contented grizzly bears – and so I… just…

The need is always there. It’s like I’m a dog conditioned to salivate at the feeling of lying in bed at night – or even just the thought of it.

Except that this dog does not salivate from the mouth.

I wiggle my butt on my yoga block to assuage the tingling below.

It’s been like this all damn day, ever since Mr. Unknown told me to be patient. All day long, through every group activity and partner activity, through the short hike up to the observation platform, through our senior CEO’s super important speech about unions, through a delicious lunch, an afternoon snack, a wonderful dinner… my mind is lodged firmly between my legs. On the sheer itch, there.

And on my phone. On the instructions that are coming.

With gritted teeth, I sit the yoga class out and quickly make my way to the communal showers once we’re done. Even over the soft rush of the water that echoes from the mosaic-tiled walls and the milky glass door that I closed behind me, I can hear my colleagues talking in the other stalls. They gossip pretty viciously.

I wonder how they would talk about me… if they knew. If they saw that picture the unknown voyeur had taken.

Then I wonder if any of them heard me last night.

… and whether they will hear me again tonight?

I stand there and watch my soapy hand slide from my tits to my belly, down between my legs, as though it were remote-controlled.

I imagine Kelly-Ann awake in her bed, her ears pricking with the soft sighs and moans that waft through the sleeping hall, barely heard above the rushing sounds of the flowing curtains.

I imagine Olivia sitting up in her bed, how she’s listening intently, hardly even breathing, and how her sleepshirt slides off her dusky shoulder so that the night air kisses her puckered nipple.

I imagine Leon with his hand between his legs, allowing himself to stroke oh so slowly, trying to match the rhythm of my fingers between my legs.

I’m so smooth and soft.

Slick. Slippery.

Warm and-

“You gonna be much longer?” There’s a knock on my glass door, and I suppress a startled shriek, pulling my hand away.

I make some apologetically polite and appropriate noises, then hurry to rinse the foamy suds off my skin, and evacuate the stall. A yoga-sweat-drenched Jennifer from finances is standing there wrapped in a big towel and makes grateful and apologetic noises back at me while she slips in past me. I hope she attributes my red face to the steamy heat of the shower.

I wonder if she can smell my pussy in the stall. That slight note of sweet musk over all the flowery shampoos and deodorant? I swear I can smell it.

A clock is ticking in my mind while I blow-dry my hair and wrap myself in my bathrobe to make my way across the sleeping hall. I keep my face on my flip-flopped feet and definitely, absolutely, decidedly do not look left and right.

One of these people might be my blackmailer.

All of these people might be my audience.

Koryn, my bed neighbor to the right has put her bathrobe over the folding screen, so I put my own over the folding screen between my bed and Andrea’s to my left. Andrea is already asleep. Even in the soft, dim light that emanates from overhead lamps and the occasional reading lamp, I can see her muffling ear-and-eye mask wrapped all around her head and face. It’s neon orange with anime eyes on it.

My own eye mask – a high-quality 3D number, glossy but in a muted shade of red, with a delicate vine pattern – is sitting in the middle of my pillow, and I wreck my brain whether I put it there like that. It seems so… strategically placed. "You're getting paranoid," I mutter to myself and sit down on the edge of my mattress, shivering in my nightshirt even though it’s the middle of summer and the breeze that gave this place its name is rather pleasant.

My phone wakes up on the nightstand.

My body seems to wake up right along with it. My pulse quickens and deepens. All the hairs on my arms and legs prickle and stand on end. The pit of my stomach tightens.

I hastily grab the phone, unlock the screen, and tap the push notification for the message. Unknown number.

[Unknown: Check your nightstand.]
[Unknown: I trust you know what to do.]
[Unknown: Afterwards, you don’t get to touch below the belt anymore tonight.]
[Unknown: You’ll keep your hands on top of your blanket.]
[Unknown: And you’ll put your sleep mask on.]
[Unknown: You won’t take it off again until morning.]

I shiver again, more fiercely, and I notice keenly how much the movement stirs the fabric of my shirt against my pebbled nipples.

Looking toward Andrea and making sure that she’s not witnessing my actions, I reach a trembling hand towards my nightstand and pull open the drawer of my small bedside table as though there might be a live snake in there.

Lying on a cloth napkin, there’s an object. It teeters a little when I pull the drawer fully open. I have to take it out to see it fully.

It’s a… device made of smooth, purple (or maybe dark blue?) rubber, shaped vaguely like an electric toothbrush, except molded from one piece and without bristles. It has a bigger, elongated bulb at one end and a smaller, rounder bulb at the other, the two connected by a flexible neck.

Abruptly, I realize what it is – and it comes alive in my hand that very second. The vibration is shockingly strong. I flinch and almost drop it.

I trust you know what to do.

***